


The death stare

by Lomeniel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Low Self Esteem, Self-Hatred, Swearing, pining - sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16908777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomeniel/pseuds/Lomeniel
Summary: Apparently there's a reason you can't seem to get a date, and it isn't the way you look.





	The death stare

You’ve always been kinda fond of your hair: the long locks are thick and luscious, and although the colour is a bit plain, it’s the one thing you like the most about you appearance.  
But this case is a royal pain in the ass, and you have to do something to avoid being recognised. Hence the appointment at the local hair salon.  
The stylist greets you with a wide smile, gesturing for you to take a seat in front of the mirror. You do as you’re told, trying your best not to focus on all those things the mirror cannot hide.  
“I’m Ana,” she chirps, and you cringe internally at the horrible, fake warmth in her voice. She’s definitely been working too long with customers. “What can I help you with today?” She combs her fingers through your hair as she speaks, and for a moment you’re lost in the sensation, imagining a wholly different set of fingers running over your scalp.  
“I was thinking about changing the, uh, colour,” you reply softly, already regretting the decision to do anything at all. But it’s necessary, you tell yourself, and meet her face in the mirror. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  
“And just in time, too.”  
What?  
“You’re overdue for a change, honey. This mousy colour does nothing for your complexion.” She means nothing by it, you know that, and luckily she doesn’t notice the change in your expression. You on the other hand, can’t ignore the feeling that settles in your stomach like a stone, cold and unmoving.  
She lifts your hair and turns it under the light. “I’m thinking we go with a rich mocha or… You sure you don’t wanna cut it? Just a little bit? Thin it out”  
“No! No cutting. Just the colour.” In your own ears, your voice is shrill, but you doubt hears it. Years in the hunting business have made you into a pretty decent actress.  
Ana giggles. “Alright. No cutting. Just colour. Don’t worry, honey. You’ll still look better.”  
After that whatever she says is lost in the great big empty. She probably doesn’t even know that she said anything wrong, but you’re sprinting down Self-loathing Avenue by now.

Two hours later you’re seated in the diner across the road. The smell of citrus and argan oil wraps you in a cocoon as you wait for Sam and Dean to finish their bit, and for some reason it acts like cement around your feet; dragging you down.  
Your mind is filled with everything that’s wrong. How you wish your lips were fuller, kissable, even. Just the thought makes your nose all stuffy, and the prickling in your eyes intensifies. But you’re determined not to cry. Dammit, if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s swallowing down that that ice cold pebble that attaches itself to the back of your throat.  
But shit, what you wouldn’t give to be pretty; to have smaller ears, and to not have that stupid potato nose that now glows bright red in the corner of your eyes. It is what it is, though. You’re you, and usually that’s enough.   
“Whoa!” Dean’s voice carries well through the busy restaurant. “Lookin’ good there, kid. New colour suits you.”  
Barely looking up, you nod your thanks.   
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Dean slides in next to you and puts a comforting arm around your shoulder.  
You groan in response, uncertain how honest you want to be. He doesn’t want to deal with your insecurity. “’s nothing.”  
“Mhm. You do know I can see you, right?”  
Shifting in the seat, you turn to face the window.  
“Aw, sweetie, you’re never like this. What’s got you so upset?” He scoots closer, but there’s a real danger of tears, so you sigh loudly and pull back from his arms, staring down into your lap and gnawing on your thumb.   
“Hey hey, you can tell me.”  
Keeping your eyes anywhere but on him, you take a deep breath. “I’m…” No. It’s too hard. Embarrassing to feel like this. You’re supposed to be a tough hunter, dammit! Rubbing your hands on your face, feeling the chill from your fingers soothe the fire in your cheeks, you decide. Turning away again so you don’t accidentally look at his expression – it’s bound to be filled with pity and confusion – you bite your lip and blink a couple of times.  
“I’m… fuck, Dean, how am I gonna explain this without sounding like a… a brat?”  
He blows a short breath through his nose, putting his hand on your knee. “Think I can handle it.”  
Okay. Whatever. Better out than in, my Dad always said. “Do you ever feel like you look like Jabba the Hutt? Of course you don’t.” You scoff and finally look up. Dean’s looking just as confused as you thought he would. “But I do. I know I’m badass. I’m strong. I’m smarter than most, and I’m even funny on occasion, but…” You shake your head and suck air through partially closed lips. “I want to feel good about myself, but it’s hard when my stomach jiggles like it does. And I’ve got so many stretch marks I look like a tiger – it’s… how can anybody find me attractive?”  
“What?”  
“Just… sometimes – I wanna be pretty, Dean. ‘s stupid, I know. But I want guys to turn to look when I pass them.”  
There’s a fleeting moment of panic in Dean’s eyes. He’s not sure how to deal with this, but after a couple of seconds’ uncomfortable silence, he decides to try the earnest approach. “But you ARE beautiful. Any guy would be fighting for a chance to be with you.”  
“You’re not, though,” you sigh back. Okay, that was unfair, but it sorta just slipped out. Might as well go full teenager when you’re at it.  
Dean straightens, sits back for a second. Then he brushes a couple of loose strands of hair out of your face. “You don’t want me,” he says before pulling you into his arms again. “I’m too full of myself.” He chuckles into your hair, but it sounds a bit hopeful. Like he for a moment actually believes you mean it – that you crave his attention. He’s right of course. He’s not the Winchester you want.   
Nodding, you sniff, trying – and failing – to hide the sound. It’s really not something you want to discuss in a place full of strangers. Dean spares you the humiliation of explaining further. “You really don’t think you’re pretty?”  
“And we have a winner! It shouldn’t, but it’s eating me up.”  
Suddenly his hands grab your upper arms, and lift you so you’re facing him completely. “You know looks aren’t everything, right?”  
Ding dong! Wrong answer. You arch your eyebrows, letting him know exactly that.   
“Y/N, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re just…”  
“I know. Trust me, I know. I’m like a sister. It’d be weird for you to look at me any other way. But… I’ve had this –“ You gesture to your body, “all my life. Sometimes I just wanna… feel like…”  
“Come on, you’re beautiful. Unique –“  
“Don’t shit me, Winchester. You know as well as I do that guys don’t even look twice in my direction. Not on the streets, and certainly not in the bars. I’m …” You really don’t want to say it out loud, but it’s the word that lingers in the back of your head. “…ugly.”  
“Y/N!” The outrage in his voice takes you by surprise. “You are not… gah, the hell is wrong with you? Why, how can you possibly…?”  
You shake your head, laughing soundlessly at yourself. Of course Dean wouldn’t understand. “It’s not important.” It’s time to get over yourself, so you start to get up, only to be pulled back down again.  
”Sweetie.” It’s more of a sigh than anything else. “The only reason – oh god, Sam’s gonna kill me,” he huffs before slapping on a confident grin. “The only reason you’re not being run down by dudes is that they’re scared shitless.”  
What? The grimace on your face feels funny. “I scare them???”  
His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and he silences himself with a fist over his lips. “They, uh… slink off with their tails between their legs when my stupid brother gives ‘en the death stare.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Yeah. And speaking of… Hiya, Sammy.”  
“Dean. Hey, Y/N.”  
Uh oh. Dean’s sprung this bomb on you, and you haven’t had time to process it yet. “Hey. Uh, listen, I’m gonna go… um, freshen up…” You quickly squeeze past Dean, keeping your eyes down all the time, so Sam can’t see how red they are.  
Just before the door smacks shut, Sam’s voice pierces your ear. “Dude! You did what?” There’s a nervous laugh, but you can’t determine whose it is.


End file.
